Feral
by Shadow Mignonne
Summary: Alfred, Francis, and Arthur find a little feral child in the woods and take it home. It turns out that this boy without a home is carrying more baggage than they bargained for. AU, human names; expect sporadic updates.
1. Prologue: Found

Feral

**Characters:** Canada, England, America, France, more later.  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> None yet~  
><strong>Rating Warnings:** T for language and some innuendo; Human names used, AU universe, possible slash later on.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Alfred, Francis, and Arthur find a little feral child in the woods and take it home. It turns out that this boy without a home is carrying more baggage than they bargained for.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Do not own Hetalia, it belongs to the glorious Himaruya. I just write the fanfiction, guys.

**Notes:** Alright, haven't posted a fanfiction in awhile... (Or ever, in the case of this username.) Anyway, I'm open to (and practically begging for) suggestions, corrections, critiques, any and all of it. I'll try to respond to the comments I do receive. If any pairing does appear here, it's probably going to be UKCan, just to warn you if you don't like that pairing. Well... On with the show!

* * *

><p><em>Prologue- Found<em>

His boot slid in a patch of mud, almost bringing him to the ground immediately. A strangled curse left his throat, his hands managing to grab a hold on a low-hanging treebranch. Righting himself, the young blonde boy adjusted the pack on his shoulders and marched onwards. It had just rained that morning, spraying the whole forest with a layer of moisture. From the trees and forest matter rose a smell, a rich, full, naturial smell. Being outdoors was nice.

"Don't go too far ahead, or you'll get lost!" A terse, irate English voice called from behind him. The 12-year-old unleashed a laugh full of his usual confident spirit, while on the inside he cringed. Being outdoors was nice without being babysat by _him_ the whole time...

"You worry too much, man. I'm fine, I love exploring the woods. If you're going to harp on anyone, make it your boyfriend; he's probably falling behind again, the big wuss." A pair of offended cries sounded behind him, followed by the crash of undergrowth being trampled underfoot. He broke out in a run, grinning to himself- it was just _too easy _to wind up his cousin.

"_Ferme ta bouche, _boy, I shall have you know that I am keeping up just fine."

"Alfred, take that back right now, you little shit! He's not my boyfriend!"

Arthur's longer legs eventually caught up to him, and caught him by the backpack; they collided, momentum sending them tumbling to the ground. From the piles of damp moss and leaf litter they emerged, one blonde whooping with laughter and the other glaring daggers into his younger cousin, who withered sheepishly under the pressure of his gaze, and became rightfully silent. Bringing up the rear was the oldest of the bunch, a young Frenchman who wasn't terribly pleased to be outdoors so long. It wasn't the dirt that was an issue (he did a lot of gardening, dirt barely phased him), so much as the humidity that would render in vain the careful work he had spent on his hair, currently tied back into a loose ponytail.

"You both are idiots," he sighed, crouching down and tittering over the leaves in his companion's perpetually spiky locks- his hand was promptly smacked away.

Pouting, he dragged them to their feet, insisting that they get a move on so they could finish the romp through the woods that Alfred positively insisted on, and still be home before it got dark. The elder of the two grumbled to himself under his breath, allowing the preteen to run ahead. Exasperated, the Frenchman shook his head and sighed, earning another famous glare from his English friend.

"Oh Arthur, you must learn patience with the boy. He knows well what will upset you- don't you realise he just does it for your attention?"

The thick-browed teen snorted, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans- smeared with mud from his earlier tumble, he noted with distaste- and trying to pick up the pace to avoid talking about it. "Shut your mouth, bloody frog," he growled, training his eyes on the ground in front of him.

Francis clapped his hand over the shorter man's shoulder. "Things will only get better if you make an attempt, _mon ami_. But you are not making one."

"And why should I have to make an attempt with that spoilt little-" Arthur's fully prepared rant was cut off by a shout from the mentioned spoilt boy. Gasping in a startled breath of air, he rushed towards the source of the sound ("Not again!" Francis cried), praying to god that it wasn't a bear.

Arriving on the scene, Arthur felt his stomach sink into his boots. It was worse than a bear. It was a bear cub. A little white bear cub, engaged in a blackberry bush, while Alfred stupidly tried to get closer to it. Darting forward, Arthur grabbed the wrist of his cousin seven years his junior, dragging him back a few metres.

"What in all _bloody sodding_ _hell_ do you think you're doing, Al?" he hissed, scanning the area for the mother bear- she had to be close by, and they were just lucky that she hadn't noticed the thoughtless American trying to sneak up on her cub.

Alfred tried to fix him with apologetic puppy-dog eyes and a pout, which normally worked so well on his cousin; this time, the other deflected his gaze and cuffed him about the ears. He was really about to set into the boy with a long talk about how dangerous it was to approach a wild animal, when a rustling sounded from the area of the blackberry bush. Francis had by now caught up, and all three stared warily at the thorny thicket, backing away slowly. This is it, they all thought, feeling prickles of dread creep up their spines. They were done for, about to be eaten by a grumpy mama-bear checking in on her wandering cub. Helpless. Seeing a glint of golden fur- or hair?- Francis tried to run, but found his legs seizing up, unable to carry him away.

A low growl emanated from the brush. Alfred looked like he was about to cry.

On all fours, the figure loped out from behind the bush. Untamed, tangled goldenrod hair. Curious indigo eyes. Fair skin. Human. He was bare but for a huge red sweatshirt that dwarfed his thin body. Well, they assumed it had once been red- it was stained, caked with dirt, any colour long past salvageable. His eyes, large and round and glinting in the 2-o'clock sunlight, were trained on the trio, inspecting them.

The little white cub unleashed a huge yawn, and the boy on all fours smiled, creeping over to the bear and scooping him up into his arms. About to call out in warning to the boy, Arthur paused when it glanced up in confusion at first, before seeming to recall something and settling against the boy's sweatshirt. Those eyes turned back to their group. Now on three feet, he crept closer; fascination kept them all rooted to the spot.

Eventually the boy was close enough to reach up and touch Alfred, who stood at the front. With a tentative hand, he brushed against the sunkissed skin of Alfred's face, causing a sort of collective shiver to pass through all four.

"Be careful, he could have fleas," Arthur remarked blandly, never once taking his eyes off the new face. Wondering: where had he come from?

About to make a smart remark back to his cousin, Alfred jumped a foot in the air when the boy took his distraction as an opportunity to steal his glasses off his very nose. Squealing, he swiped his hands before him wildly, demanding that he give them back that instant. Arthur and Francis kept him restrained, not trusting that the boy and his bear wouldn't attack if provoked.

"Stop that, Al, it's very rude."

"Hey, I'm not the one who said he has fleas!"

"Hush you two, look!" Francis finally got their attention, and they followed his finger. The boy was studying the smudged lenses, a little pink tongue poking out at one corner of his mouth, while the cub had moved onto his back to free his hands.

Realising they had stopped talking, the boy smiled again, made a few odd movements with his lips, and slipped the glasses on.

They exchanged glances, at a loss. What were they supposed to make of all this? They had been approached today by some feral child who took care of a bear cub and crawled on all fours, but apparently knew what glasses were. "... He does wear them nicely, though," Francis admitted with a shrug.

"But they're _mine_," Alfred whined, earning another smack about the side of the head.

"Maybe if you asked for something nicely," Arthur ground out, "then you would receive it, eh?"

With a defiant look, Al brushed off his British cousin's hand and stepped towards the boy, who was inspecting his surroundings with wonder. Crouching so that they were face to face, the boys greeted each other with a smile, mirroring one another.

"You like those, huh? They help you see?" The boy nodded happily. Behind them, Arthur found himself on the verge of fainting with excitement, while Alfred mentally glossed over the fact that the boy could understand English.

"Well, I kind of need them back. They help me see, too. And they're brand new, so my parents will be _so_ mad if they find out I lost them. Or, y'know, gave them away."

The smile faded from the boy's face, and he pulled the spectacles off, handing them over. Pursing his lips in thought, Alfred stood up and tapped his shoe on the ground. An idea smacked him in the face, and he beamed down at the wild-child. "These are new, but I still have my old ones! I could give you those, and then you wouldn't have to worry about seeing things anymore!"

Pleased with himself, Alfred ruffled the boy's hair none-too-gently, only to have his hand smacked away. Just to get his goat, he repeated the motion more aggressively, and, patience wearing thin, the boy pushed him onto his back and pounced. Francis and Arthur rushed forward to defend him, but were stalled when they realised that the boy was doing no harm. He was simply returning the annoying hair-ruffling session that Alfred had treated him to, while the boy beneath him laughed and flailed his legs, shouting 'no fair!'

Pushing the boy off, Alfred was able to crawl to his knees and wrap the boy in an overly friendly embrace, ignoring the unpleasant animal smell the boy and his clothing carried. The boy, for his part, blushed and let his arms dangle at his sides awkwardly. Meeting individually Arthur's gaze and then Francis's, he seemed to shrug with his eyes, making those funny little lip-movements again.

When Alfred finally pulled away, beaming and radiant, he glanced up beseechingly at his cousin. "Can I keep him?"

* * *

><p><strong>So, how was it? This idea has been buzzing in my head for weeks, and I wanted to flush it out. Hopefully I'll feel inspired enough to continue, and not get intimidated by the fact that people are reading my story ^^; Remember, though, this is just the prologue- in the next chapter is when the real stuff goes down.<br>In case anyone was confused about ages, Al is 12, Arthur is 19, Francis is 21; Al and Artie are cousins, Francis is just sort of a family friend/ eternal rival. Well, until next time~  
><strong>**-Shadow Mignonne, Esqr.**


	2. Chapter 1: Claimed

Feral  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Canada, England, America, France, more later.  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> None yet~  
><strong>Rating Warnings:** T for language and some innuendo; Human names used, AU universe, possible slash later on.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Alfred, Francis, and Arthur find a little feral child in the woods and take it home. It turns out that this boy from the woods is carrying more baggage than they bargained for.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Do not own Hetalia, it belongs to the glorious Himaruya. I just write the fanfiction, guys.

**Notes: **Before we begin, I would like to say that I do not speak French. I have a French-English dictionary and 1st-year-French class knowledge, so if my poor linguistics make you cringe, feel free to correct me. Note that chapters will get longer as the story goes on; this one is sort of the second half of the Prologue. Please point out errors in grammar or spelling, or any awkward wording that needs to be tidied up.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 1- Claimed<em>

"No," the two older blondes chorused.

Alfred's face fell, and he gesticulated wildly around the forest-boy, who seemed equally despondent. "He is a human being, Alfred," Francis pointed out gently. "You cannot just decide to take him home like he is some sort of pet."

"Then he can be my brother," the preteen replied, as though it completely fixed the situation and made all the sense in the world.

The Frenchman looked from one boy to the other. Deeming the situation hopeless, he mentally bowed out; once Alfred had set his mind on something, there was no deterring him. (He still set out traps for the ghosts which his cousin supposedly summoned to harass him, after months of insisting and proving that he did no such thing. Needless to say, more substantial persons were usually the victims of his ghost hunts.)

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, hissing out an exasperated breath through his teeth. "Al, you know that's ridiculous. You can't go around picking up strange boys and taking them home just because you're still upset that your father-"

Meeting an expression of genuine hurt (_'You promised not to talk about it'_), Arthur stifled his words and pinched harder on his nose. Why did his stupid little cousin always have to make things difficult? He used to be so cute when he was little, before... But nevermind that.

"Artie, look at him," Alfred pleaded, dragging the boy onto two feet. He wobbled, but stayed upright. "Really _look_ at him. He lives in the woods. He's dirty and half-naked, and probably really hungry too. We need to help him, and right now he needs me. Us. And... and dammit, I _want_ to have him, so I'm _going_ to have him!"

"Like hell you are! Come here, we're going home right now- _without_ the boy!" His berserk button had been tapped, and the Brit made a lunge for Alfred, only to have his path blocked by the boy in question, who held his hands out to deflect the incoming body. Though his body was bent in a wary half-crouch, his eyes were firm and clear. One got the feeling that he wasn't very appreciative of having people talk about him as though he weren't there, and made several more of those funny little lip-movements. Arthur ignored him.

"You don't care about me!" Alfred wailed from behind. "You never care about how I feel! I only want to help, and you're treating me like a criminal!"

"I care about you enough to keep you from making stupid decisions like this!"

"If you would all kindly shut up." Francis stood off to the side, his hands on his hips, fixing all three of them with a paternally disapproving look. He _always_ had to be the voice of reason in their stupid arguments...

The cousins muttered a few sheepish apologies, not meeting his gaze, nor one another's. "_Tr__ès bien._ Now that you are finished squabbling like children, why do we not come to a compromise? Alfred, your cousin is right- the boy is not yours to keep. However, Arthur, you are handling the situation poorly; there is no reason why he cannot be brought to visit the house. The boy _is_ rather filthy, so the least we could do is provide him with a bath and clean clothing, non? _Souhaitez-vous cela?_"

The final phrase he directed to the forest-boy, who smiled and nodded, put at ease by the Frenchman's calm approach to the situation while the other two were prepared to tear out throats. Francis raised both eyebrows, extending a hesitant hand out to the dirty blonde, who took it and pulled himself right to the Frenchman's side. Smiling with both lips and eyes, the boy made a point of attaching himself to Francis's hip and not giving an inch of personal space- not that he minded the absence of that overrated concept anyways.

_'So he understands French,'_ he thought, distractedly smudging a streak of dirt in the hollow of the forest-boy's cheek. The boy stared up, practically pleading for affection with his eyes.

Alfred, knowing he had gotten his way by the weary look on Arthur's face, gave a whoop of excitement, punched the air, and took off running in the direction they had come. As soon as the youngest of the group disappeared into the foliage, the Brit spun around and pinned his long-time rival/ best friend against a tree, green gaze boring holes into his pretty face.

"I cannot believe you are condoning this," he seethed, wrapping his fists up in Francis's shirt collar. "You know what Al is like just as well as I do, and you know that if we'd held out just a bit longer, he would have caved and moved onto something else. And if we bring your little hanger-on home, that is exactly what Al will do. He'll care for a few moments, and then become distracted. He doesn't want to help, he wants someone to pay attention to him. What he needs are _normal friends_. This'll be like... you were there for Yellowstone, weren't you? Do you recall what he did when his mother said he wasn't allowed to take the bison home? He completely forgot about it within the minute. He moved on. Al needs something constant, and he can't be allowed to just take things home."

Their eyes had been locked through Arthur's entire tirade, both trying to convey a message to the other that superseded their words. And from each side was a silent plea (_'Let me keep him' 'Don't let him get hurt'_) that met in the middle and swirled against one another, hot and cold emotions stirring up a small whirlwind in between. "Please, Francis," Arthur begged through his teeth.

"Eeeew! God, Artie, you could have at least warned me! Why do you have to be such a fag, all pressed up against Frog-Breath like that?" The disgusted cry came from behind his back, causing the Brit to whip around and turn his death-ray glare onto his obnoxious cousin.

While Arthur and Alfred played another round in their eternal game of cat-and-mouse, one chasing the other back to the car, Francis and the wild-boy (who had picked up the polar bear cub and taken it without anyone's notice, somehow) made their way through the woods slowly, hands clasped. The younger man looked up with adoration at his elder, with those striking indigo eyes. Eyes and hands that drank up the attention, absorbed the tenderness like a sponge. And whenever his own attention was captured by one of the other two, his expression became a mask of polite annoyance with their bickering over him. Arthur refused to meet his gaze. Whenever he looked away for even a moment, turned his thoughts to anything else, it was as though he couldn't recall that the boy was even there. It was helpful; he didn't _want_ the boy to be there, almost as strongly as Al wanted the opposite. The boy hardly mattered in the grand scheme; he was simply the object which he and his cousin were currently at odds over.

"So, I suppose that you speak French, _mon petit_?" Francis attempted, whispering into his ear- he seemed so small, but in truth he was close to Francis's height.

The boy jumped, startled at the sudden contact of breath on his ear, and blushed. Burying his face into the bear's fur, he gave a cautious nod. _'Ah, mon dieu!'_ Francis thought, watching him with a critical eye. _'Il est tant mignon!'_ Pleased, he snaked his arm about the boy's shoulders, earning a winning smile in his direction.

While Francis's heart melted, Arthur trudged through the woods, muttering darkly under his breath what sounded like an incantation of sorts. It wasn't, though the Brit was an avid occultist on the side, but rather a string of highly colourful oaths in English and Welsh, sprinkled with the occasional word of French that slipped through his filter. After about twenty more minutes of this brisk-paced trudging, he finally emerged in the clearing where he'd parked the car. On the Vauxhall's white hood, Alfred sat guiltily twiddling his thumbs, meeting his cousin's eyes sheepishly before glancing back to his hands.

"Okay, so I shouldn't have been such a brat," Alfred admitted, feeling contrition press down on his shoulders in that way that only family could make it. "I was just really excited. And I feel bad for him. He lives all alone out here, and it's got to be cold at night... I would be lonely."

Arthur sighed and, dismissing his ill feelings, hopped up beside his cousin and trapped him in an awkward side-hug. "You _are_ lonely, Al."

The 12-year-old stuck his tongue out at the Brit, noncommittally pushing him away. Arthur laughed softly, and didn't budge; physical displays were rare, but when they came into play, they meant _business_. Soon enough, Alfred was hugging back if only to hide the moisture gathering in his eyes, the rim of his glasses digging into Arthur's chest.

"You've got to make friends your own age, I keep telling you. It isn't hard. Even though you're a right pain, it's not impossible. I mean, take me for instance- everyone hates me, but still I turned out fairly decent because I have a few people around me to keep me from going completely mad. I found out that, yeah, I can manage on my own. But when it's just you all alone on your rock, things get... bleak." Alfred looked unconvinced. "Really, if you would just _try_. If you would just _listen_. I only want what's best for you."

"How do you know _he_ isn't what's best for me?" Arthur stared dumbly at his cousin, trying to comprehend what was being said: that he didn't know what was best for the young American. An impossible notion.

"Do you two ever tire of hearing your own voices?" Francis asked disinterestedly from where he stood, leaning against the passenger-side door.

Giving a start, Arthur turned to leer at the Frenchman, who still had his lecherous paws all over the boy. He'd nearly forgotten about the boy again. Those eyes were trained on him with a bland, unseeing look, as though he were looking through a mirror onto a bit of boring landscape. Unnerved, he blocked the boy's existence from his recollection, dug out the keys, and demanded they all get in the car. The boy refused to let Francis sit in the passenger seat, dragging him into the back where he settled his head into the eldest's lap and- boy and bear alike- fell asleep immediately. Alfred sat up front, looking disappointed.

"You're hogging him," he sniffed, his cowlick bobbing as he twisted around to look at Francis and his boy-in-the-red-sweatshirt.

Francis replied with a wink and a single finger pressed to his lips, imploring the loud preteen to speak a little softer. _'Jealous?'_ his eyes asked, gleaming with mirth. And, well, _he_ at least felt he had a good reason- he wanted to wave it in everyone's face and make as big a deal about it as possible, that the boy liked him best. Gilbert had his Germanic clique, Antonio was eternally busy chasing after some unpleasant Italian, and Arthur seemed to think that national pride required him to generally be very rude to him. Even Alfred had always chosen the company of his cousin over the touchy-feely Frenchman. And considering the volatile relationship those two had, that stung. Being first pick was a pleasant occurrence indeed!

"I'm not letting you give him a bath," Alfred informed him loudly, failing in his attempt to pretend unaffectedness. Arthur rolled his eyes- his polite apathy and stinging deadpan wit had taken years of emotional repression and self-loathing to perfect; Alfred was an amateur.

The boy stirred, scrunching up his eyes and nose as he shifted slightly between the planes of wakefulness and slumber. _"Chut, chut. Dors, mon petit_," Francis cooed, running a hand over the tangled sandy-blonde hair as over a cat's fur and a thumb over the plump lower lip.

And he wondered why people called him a creep...

It was a brief drive back to Alfred's home, where all three (four, if he got his way) were staying for the summer. A bit longer than just the summer, in some cases. In the driveway they paused, killed the engine, and sat in tense silence for a few moments. None of them wanted to face the potential challenge that lay ahead, the one which they had managed to barely even consider since the boy had been found.

"How are we going to explain all this to your mum?"

Alfred shifted nervously in his seat, searching for an answer in his muddy shoes. "All I've got right now is that he's a friend from school who was kidnapped by amphibious aliens and then they performed medical experiments of dubious and emotionally scarring content and then he managed to rig their underwater base to explode and then the animatronic bear cub that he stole guided him back to civilisation and-"

"Forget I asked," Arthur cut him off with a grimace. God, but could that boy's mind wander.

Gently shaking his adorable new companion awake, Francis scoffed at the two cousins. "And what is wrong with telling her the truth that she deserves to know, hm?"

"Because if we tell her the truth, she won't let us keep him, duh." Alfred retorted, sticking his tongue out at the Frenchman. "I bet she'll barely let him in the house if she knows he's from the woods. Remember the time I tried to take home that squirrel?"

"That was a squirrel! This is a human being!" Francis looked personally insulted at the comparison. The boy seemed to agree, nodding feverishly and making more of those funny lip-movements. Arthur wondered if he had some kind of a tic, the way he kept doing that.

All occupants of the car screamed in a very undignified manner as tapping sounded on the glass. Feeling their racing pulses slow down, they turned sheepishly to look at Mrs. Jones, who was giving them a stern look that had been coined by their little posse simply as the "Explain, Alfred" face. Her hair was the same shade of blonde as her son's, tied up in a sloppy bun, and she had already changed into comfortable clothes for the evening and was clutching a cup of coffee in her hands. And so the four piled out and stood as though awaiting inspection.

Mrs. Jones spent barely a minute absorbing the boy's appearance- shaggy, messy hair, dirty everywhere, poorly dressed, terrified expression- before smiling warmly and sending him inside with her son to lead him to the shower and to find some clothes to fit him. Francis and Arthur withered under her piercing gaze, awaiting her lecture. They'd heard many a speech directed to Alfred, the poor bastard, and weren't keen to replicate the experience.

"Where did you find him? Did you get his name?" She pried, to their surprise.

"Er... in the park, actually. We were on a walk and went a little off-trail, and Alfred discovered him. He understands English, and at least a bit of French. But he hasn't spoken a word to us."

The blonde woman put her hands on her hips, staring her nephew down with one perfectly-shaped eyebrow raised. "And I suppose you expect me to let him stay, is that it?"

"Non, Alfred also insisted on bringing him home."

"But you would love for him to stay, wouldn't you, Frenchie?" Her tone was dry, and Arthur was already pulling out his keys to go drive the boy back to the woods where they'd found him.

Both men were equally astonished when the steely-eyed woman suddenly broke out in peals of laughter, slapping one and then the other on the back. "What, did you really think I was going to make him go back to the park? I mean, hey, what's one more deadbeat hanging around, eating my food? I may not know what's going on, but you didn't see the way Al's face lit up when he got to go and help that boy. He hasn't looked that happy since Rob and I split up."

"Well, wasn't that anticlimactic," Arthur murmured to himself as he hurried into the house with Francis in tow.

Inside the house, Alfred was showing his new companion to the bathroom, instructing him to leave the bear outside and take the sweatshirt off. His body was thin, enough to look unhealthy, but with enough muscle and sinew stretched across it so that he didn't give a vibe of frailty. Awkwardly, he tried to cover his exposed figure, but Alfred mentally glossed it over. By the time his shower water had heated to a comfortably hot temperature, Arthur and Francis had been in to check on them. And to tell them that the boy could stay.

"I suppose it's a good thing," Arthur muttered, facing away from the nude boy for courtesy's sake. Of course, his French 'enemy mine' was unabashedly watching Alfred scrub the backs of his filthy legs with a cloth. "I mean, who could just leave that boy all alone in the woods? Terrible thing. He can't be much older than Alfred. Oh, eleven or twelve, I'd wager. Hardly old enough to be expected to-"

"I'm fifteen."

To allow the barely existent voice to be heard, the water had stopped running. It felt like time itself had stopped running. That voice was unfamiliar. Soft, quavering, slightly raspy as though from disuse. It carried an odd accent. Sort of... Canadian. Finding no other option possible, Arthur turned around to find the apparently teenaged boy staring at him over his bony shoulder with the same carefully blank eyes and pursed lips.

"... What?" Arthur finally attempted speech after a few moments of incredulous staring. Unfortunately, even then he wasn't able to produce anything intelligent to say.

"I said I'm fifteen," he replied firmly, his voice gaining strength, though it was still close to whisper-level volume. "I am fifteen years old, and on July 1st I will be sixteen. My name is Matthew. I'm not 'the boy.' Matthew. _Say my name_."

Francis couldn't restrain a smile. They blinked. Alfred in wonder, Arthur in bemusement. He had a name, he had a birthday, he was substantial; he hadn't been able to speak before, had he? It was harder to talk to a person after you had treated him like an animal all day.

"Matthew... I didn't know you could speak." Arthur finally choked out, the words snagging on the dry, clenched walls of his throat.

The words seemed to push Matthew nearly to tears. "I've always been able to speak," he informed the Brit. "I've _been_ speaking to you all afternoon... I can speak. You three just couldn't listen."

Arthur stood up, refusing to look anywhere but the tiled floor as he exited the bathroom. "And I've done quite enough listening for today, thanks."

"Not just to me," the half-cleaned boy called, hopping out of the shower and grabbing onto Arthur's sleeve with one wet hand, dripping all over the floor. His voice dropped even lower, so that only the man right beside him could hear; Arthur finally allowed himself to look into the boy's- into Matthew's eyes. He would not be tempted, he would not look elsewhere; the eyes were a last resort.

"There are some people you care about," Matthew whispered, eyes flickering towards Alfred for a split second before returning to Arthur's, "who just need you to listen."

He let slip a little smile, breaking the nonemotive facade for a moment, and climbed back into the shower, while the other two watched with a range of emotions playing on and off their faces, curiosity prominent among them. "I'll keep that in mind, Matthew."

As he shut the door behind him and paced down the hallway to his borrowed bedroom, Arthur was almost sure that he heard a soft, sweet voice calling after him: "Even though you're a right pain, it's not impossible."

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, yeah, I was surprised by the positive welcome back into the fanfiction world in the last chapter. Really surprised. I expected maybe two reviews; it's why I try to be a pessimist, because I'm always pleasantly surprised, if not completely right ^^ Apologies again to fluent speakers if my French royally sucks, I'm just a first-year student with a dictionary and the internet.<strong>

**I see this version of Matthew as being very perceptive to emotions; and he can definitely relate to anyone who feels unappreciated or ignored or forgotten or... you get the picture, and his sympathy makes him want to play mediator. Anyway, if you spot any moments of flagrant OOCness and have suggestions on how I can improve, feel free to shout them out.**

**-Shadow Mignonne, Esqr.**


End file.
